


Who It's All For

by SheriffsRevolver



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Rickyl, Romance, Sad with a Happy Ending, So much kissing, like a crazy amount of kissing, richonne era ends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 23:16:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13891212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheriffsRevolver/pseuds/SheriffsRevolver
Summary: After Carl's death, Rick needs a reason to keep going. Daryl gives him one.





	Who It's All For

**Author's Note:**

> _**GUYS.**_ I know we all need comfort after the events of 809, so I wrote this Rickyl fix-it! Specially crafted with the intent to make us feel better about the shit storm canon!
> 
> The best part? The amazing, talented, _flawless_ [ab_O_vo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ab_O_vo/pseuds/ab_O_vo) took on **four** rounds of beta to polish this story up for you guys! Let's be real: it started as angsty drabble and she turned it into a full on Rickyl romance. So if this gives you the Feels™, you know who to thank.

After he put Carl in the upturned dirt of wasteland Alexandria, Rick shut down. The shovel hit the ground, the task of seeing Carl off, finished, and Rick shriveled up inside of himself. 

Michonne poured water over his trembling hands to wash the filth away. She led him to a curb to sit on, and they looked at Carl’s dirt pile from a distance. She talked at him. Rick stared at the dirt and said nothing back.

Rick saw through his eyeballs, moved using his lanky body, but felt small inside of himself, like there were yards of distance between him and the outside world. He heard Michonne’s words, he understood them, he could think of what he ought to say back, but when it came to moving his mouth, using his voice, breathing regular enough, he was too locked up. He wasn’t a man anymore—not really. His entire being became nothing more than a cold, metal sphere lodged in an esophagus. The muscle worked around him—the obstruction—and that pressure, squeezing him from all sides, it put fissures in him. Rick knew it would only be a matter of time before the very last of him gave under the constriction and splintered into fragments. Then he wouldn’t even be a sphere caught in a throat. He’d be broken bits, swallowed down.

For a long while, Michonne kept talking at him. She tried to be strong, because Carl asked her to. Rick understood that. He had his own final request from Carl, and it pulled at him incessantly. It was the only thing keeping him breathing. The only thing left of him. So, he understood why Michonne was trying hard to be strong—it was all that was left of her. 

Eventually though, Michonne gave up. Why talk at something that won’t talk back? She gave Rick tasks instead. Stand up. Pack the supplies. Pay attention. Load the car. Get in. Rick did everything she asked. Then they were off to other places, and Carl was left behind. 

Those last few hours with Carl, Rick told himself all sorts of things. Told Carl all sorts of things, too. Rick had to be strong. Couldn’t ruin Carl’s last moments by breaking down and filling him with fear. That’s what you gotta do when your son is dying, sprawled out on the floor in front of you, looking yellowed and tired. You suck it up, ‘cause you’re his father, and you gotta be that until the last moment. ‘Cause then the last moment is gone, shot dead with a muffled gun, and you don’t ever get another minute of being a father to your boy. Even if that’s all you ever really were.

When Rick heard that sound—that too sudden, too quick _fwipp_ of the bullet passing through the silenced chamber—and he swore he felt that metal piece tear through him as it tore through Carl. Inside the church, Carl’s death splattered itself all over the priest’s stairs. Rick felt his own brains blown out on the stairs out front.

 

The next day, when he and Michonne arrived at the Hilltop, the last preservation after Negan’s onslaught, they were met at the gates by Daryl, carrying Judy on his side. Daryl’s eyes were big, his face, effortfully neutral. He acted like it was his job to make up for all Rick’s shortcomings. He stood tall so that Rick didn’t have to. He talked straight on, so Rick could look at the dirt. He offered over Judith for Rick to hold, but Rick crossed his arms and turned away. Daryl pulled her back and held her tight. He wrapped her up in strong, steady arms, and kissed that golden hair, as Rick should have done. So it’d be okay that Rick didn’t.

“He needs to rest,” Michonne said to Daryl on her way past, like Rick wasn’t standing right there. It should have annoyed him, but to be fair, he could see why Michonne might be sick of talking at him.

Rick followed along when Daryl lead him to the main house. Daryl checked over his shoulder every now and then to make sure he was still trudging behind him. Waste of time, worrying over that. Rick didn’t have it in him to do anything but what he was told. 

Daryl guided Rick to one of the bedrooms, ushered him in, and said, “Sleep. I’ve got this.” Then he closed the door behind himself and left Rick all alone. Rick dragged his body over to the bed and fell onto it. He couldn’t imagine ever standing up again. 

Nobody bothered him for the entire day. Rick suspected that was thanks to Michonne, Maggie, and Daryl running interference and managing the people on his behalf. He wondered if they told everybody that Rick had died from a walker bite to the side, a bullet to the head. If they hadn’t, they should’ve. Maybe the bite and the bullet didn’t cut through _his_ flesh, _his_ head, but they cut through the most important thing to him, his everything, and wasn’t that the same thing?

He drifted, in and out of sleep. The grief couldn’t possibly be processed. There was too much of it, and far, far too little of him. His thoughts drifted, in and out of coherence. Sometimes they pieced themselves together like normal, and sometimes they jumbled up wrong. His brain didn’t work right anymore, and neither did his body. He couldn’t cry, though he felt it building, and he wanted to. But his body was a long ways from himself, and it didn’t respond to the commands, requests, pleas from the suffocated sphere.

He didn’t know how late it was, but it must have been very late, or very early, because the Hilltop had gone still and the sky turned bruise blue by the time Daryl came in. He didn’t knock, just came in. Silent-footed, like he always was. Rick didn’t even have to lift his head to know it was him. The door clicked closed, and the next thing Rick heard was a voice: gentle, raspy, right beside the bed he lay out on.

“Hey,” Daryl said. Simple. Straightforward.

Rick surprised himself with his ability to speak. “Hey,” he croaked. He sounded like shit. 

“We haven’t had the chance to talk yet.”

Rick rolled his head away and didn’t reply. Daryl tapped him on the leg with his knuckles and told him to scooch over. Rick did as he was told—he was better at following instructions than talking. Daryl climbed into the bed beside him.

They lay there, staring at the ceiling but not really seeing it through the darkness. They said nothing. The company was nice. Rick could tell Daryl was thinking of Carl and grieving. It centered Rick’s thoughts and allowed him to call up his own memories of Carl. It came to him like dreams: broken up into bits and pieces, floating by at random. A look they shared. A thing he said. The way he tied his shoes. His favorite food. An afternoon they’d spent together, back before the fall, when the sun was bright and Carl was grinning, and neither of them had a care in the world, because they knew nothing of the walking dead and the world-ending quality that coated their teeth like slimed plaque.

“I’d ask how you’re holdin’ up, but I guess that’s a dumb question,” Daryl said. Rick started sobbing. The last of him finally gave out, and it didn’t splinter, or shatter, it turned to ash that he sucked right into his lungs. It burned something awful, and Rick thought surely it would kill him, but he kept gasping and somehow there was enough air to sustain him. His face flooded. The tears rolled down the sides of his head, bestowing him with a low-slung crown of despair. He choked around snot, and water, and the ash in his lungs, and it hurt his whole body to cry that hard. He hated the sound of it echoing out into the quiet night. Chirping crickets, grass in the wind, and his failure, in short, choppy breaths and a bitter whine that wouldn’t stifle no matter how hard he tried. 

Daryl pulled him in, held him to his chest. Rick was grateful for the place to bury the pain pouring out his face. He fisted his hands in the fabric of Daryl’s shirt and shook, the force of it like an earthquake. His heart was the shifting fault-line, the epicenter of the destruction, but Daryl held him through it. Rick wrapped his arms around Daryl’s middle and held him back. 

“I’m sorry,” Rick choked out against Daryl’s shoulder in between gasping breaths. His sticky cheek was pressed against Daryl’s, he dug his nails into Daryl’s back and shoulders, thumbtacks pressing into his skin (as if he didn’t have enough marks there already), and the trembling rolled through him, made him quiver against Daryl’s body like a feather in a windstorm. He knew he should let go, that he wasn’t meant to be holding on for dear life like this, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t. But Daryl held him back, just as tight.

“Don’t gotta be sorry,” he said into Rick’s ear, “You lost your most important person. This is what you gotta do.”

That kicked up Rick’s sobs even worse, because it was true. He lost _Carl_. His everything. Everything Rick did, it was all for him. Everything, everything was for him. Daryl raked his fingers through Rick’s hair and breathed steadily against Rick’s skin, so that Rick could feel the heat of it, take refuge in its rhythmic lull. 

“I know what it feels like. To lose your most important person,” Daryl said. His voice matched his breathing. Quiet, steady—like a spoken meditation. “I was bad off. Didn’t even know who I was without my brother.”

A fresh sob ripped itself out of Rick’s gutted body. It was Carl’s name on his lips, so he shoved it in the crook of Daryl’s neck. Daryl took to rocking them back and forth, real slow. 

He said, “It ain’t never gonna be the same again. I can’t tell ya otherwise. You’ll be different from now on. But you’ll learn to live with the way things are.”

Rick shook his head madly. Daryl was wrong. He’d never live with this—how could he? How could he? There was no coming back. He was dead on the church steps. He was buried in Alexandria. 

Daryl said, “You will. You’ll learn. I know it don’t feel like it now, but eventually, you’ll get a new most important person. And even though your insides’ve been ripped out, that person will stuff ‘em back in and sew ya up. Y’ain’t the same. You’ll never be the same. But at least you’ll be in one piece.”

Rick couldn’t picture it. He couldn’t see himself being whole, ever again. “Did you get sewn up?” he asked. 

“Of course. Can’t ya see it?” Daryl said. 

Rick remembered when Daryl’s wounds were fresh, chest still splayed from the death of Merle. He remembered the night Daryl came stumbling through the prison doors with a tear-stained face, moving about wild, nonsensical, his feet taking him around without his say so. That first night, Rick held him in his prison cell. Stood there, and held him tight while Daryl angry-cried. He fisted at Rick’s clothes, clawed at his skin, huffed, and trembled, on and on, until he wore himself out so bad he fell asleep standing up, with his face buried in the crook of Rick’s neck. He was bad off for days. Daryl moved like a lost balloon, floating on the wind’s currents, twisting, this way and that, without any sort of control. He had lost his most important person. His whole world. He was every bit as bad off as Rick—but he made it through. Now, he breathed easy and his body didn’t shake under the weight of sadness. He learned to live with it because—because he found a new most important person.

“Who sewed you up?” Rick asked. 

“You, Rick,” Daryl replied, like the answer was stupid simple. Like Rick ought to have known that—and maybe he did. Maybe he had known that, somewhere inside him, for a long time, but hearing Daryl say it aloud drew out a few sobs of its own. Rick tightened his grip around Daryl even more—surely, he was crushing the air out of him now—but Daryl matched the strength of it.

Fresh tears rolled down Rick’s cheeks, and his tears rolled down Daryl’s cheeks too, because their faces lay against each other. Atlantic ocean water tears squished between them. Daryl turned his mouth into it and kissed the smears they left behind. He kissed his way up Rick’s cheek. He pressed his lips to Rick’s blinking eyelid with the clumped lashes, and the raw skin, hot from rubbing at it too much. When Daryl finished one side, he turned Rick’s head with a delicate finger on his chin and did the other. His lips plucked at Rick’s face until the tears were gone and Rick’s crying stopped making more wetness. His heaving body kept on, and he still couldn’t breath right, but he wasn’t sticky wet anymore, thanks to Daryl—and wasn’t that something special? Daryl didn’t tell him to shush. He didn’t tell him to stop. No, he let Rick cry, and cleaned up the mess afterwards. Cleaned it up with his affection, his _devotion_ , so that Rick wouldn’t have to.

And in that moment, Rick felt something inside him other than loss. It was so sudden, so fierce, he had to _do_ something about it—had to express it—and at the drag of Daryl’s lips over his cheekbone, Rick turned his head so that Daryl’s lips landed on his. 

Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t even react. He just pushed his lips against Rick and kissed him how he needed. 

It wasn’t like any sort of kiss Rick experienced before. It wasn’t romantic. Kissing Daryl communicated things he couldn’t put to words. It turned feelings into action. It was about comfort, and care, and mutual understanding. 

Romantic kisses were _urgent_ , but their kisses weren’t. They kissed with no other goal in mind. They’d already reached the end the moment their lips touched. It was effortless, and _good_ , and Rick whimpered in his throat because he realized how lucky he was to have a friend like Daryl, who was kind, selfless, and loyal, who would burn the whole world, if that’s what Rick needed, who would hold him tight and kiss him soft, if that’s what Rick needed, and everything in between, because Rick was his everything. His most important person. 

“I love you,” Rick said against Daryl’s lips. Daryl kissed his mouth again, a sweet, suctioned pull that made Rick’s head spin. “I love you,” he said again. Daryl buried his face in Rick’s beard and kissed the thick, coiled hairs. “I love you,” Rick sobbed. Daryl kissed his brow-bone. Rick went on saying it, and after each time, Daryl kissed a new spot on his face, and every tender press of lips-to-skin felt like an answer, an _I love you_ , richer than words could communicate. After a while, Rick wondered why _he_ was bothering with the words, when he could be saying it the same way as Daryl.

He took Daryl’s face in his hands and pressed his lips all over. Once he had covered his whole face, he landed the final peck on Daryl’s mouth and they kissed again. Daryl loosened his grip around Rick and stroked up and down his back. Rick tightened his arms around Daryl and arched up into him. It was aggressive, needy, but Daryl rolled him onto his back and kissed him gentle until Rick relaxed. His hands untangled from Daryl’s shirt, his body went limp, and he let himself be kissed.

Their mouths moved. Their lips tugged, sucked, pulled at one another. They worked each other’s closed mouths until they were open, until they were breathing the same warm air. It felt like home. Safety. Brotherhood, built on trust, respect, and dedication. It felt like love, said over and over again, on repeat, screaming itself to Rick, so loud it chased all other thoughts away, and all that was left was Daryl’s lips and the blooming warmth taking root in the ashen soil filling Rick’s lungs. 

Daryl pushed his lips against Rick’s one last time, hard enough that Rick could feel his heartbeat, _Daryl’s_ heartbeat, thrumming along at the point of contact. Then Daryl pulled away and leaned his forehead against Rick’s. 

“I love you,” Daryl said, though he didn’t need to. Rick knew. He could feel it, in the air around them, radiating off Daryl like sunlight, building inside his _own_ chest, making Rick feel more than he thought himself capable of anymore. Rick didn’t think he’d ever wake from the state he’d been in, yet, now, in the dark, underneath Daryl sturdy body, lips swollen and salty wet, he felt alive. He’d found his voice again. He could breath normal. His body wasn’t shaking. Daryl pulled him back down to earth. He grounded him. He grabbed Rick’s balloon ribbon from off the swirling wind and tied it ‘round his wrist. 

Daryl was Rick’s salvation. His answer. His everything. 

No one could replace Carl. Rick knew that. He didn’t need a replacement. Didn’t want one. But everything he ever did was for Carl, and once Carl died, Rick didn’t know what would be left for him here on earth. He had his promise to fulfill—his son’s dying wish—but then what? What comes after? In between? The person it was all _for_ is gone. Who would it all be for now? If he was to stay in this world, then he needed a most important person. One that still breathed. 

He thought maybe his new most important person should be Judith, or Michonne. One of them would be the logical choice—his daughter, his lover—that would be expected. But there was something simple about loving Daryl that nobody else could match. Daryl didn’t stir up internal conflict, or doubt, or worry. He was safe to love. Uncomplicated. Consistent. Rick didn’t wonder if Daryl would grow up to hate him, or if he would break his heart one day. Loving Daryl was easy. Always was, always would be. ‘Til his dying breath, Rick had no doubt he’d love his best friend, his partner, Daryl Dixon, and every ounce he gave would be reciprocated. It was simple, then. Right in front of his face. 

“You said I’m your most important person,” Rick whispered into the inch between their mouths.

“Yeah,” Daryl breathed.

“Will you be mine?”

Stillness, for a moment. Then Daryl leaned forward slow and closed the space between them. His kiss warmed Rick, inside and out. It was languid, but each subtle drag of lips against lips felt intentional. Full of purpose. Like Daryl was trying his hardest to do it right. By the time he pulled back, Rick was dizzy from the careful attention. 

“I’m whatever you need,” said Daryl. 

It was true. Daryl already was, would always be, whatever Rick could need. Rick needed a reason to live. Daryl could be that reason. Rick needed someone to fight for. Daryl could be that someone. Rick needed an everything, and Daryl _was_ his everything. His everything.

Rick pulled Daryl down by the back of his neck and kissed him again, and Daryl returned it. Rick couldn’t get enough of him. God, was it good to have Daryl this way. The friction of their mouths running over each other. The pressure smushing the fragile flesh of Rick’s lips back against his teeth. The panting breaths that steamed up the inside of his mouth. It acted like a stimulant. Daryl worked his way into Rick’s bloodstream and made his nerves tingle and his senses wild. His brain fuzzed over and there was nothing left to think about but the feel of Daryl’s kisses and his dry hands tugging through Rick’s curls. 

Daryl lowered himself down so that he was laying over Rick’s torso. Daryl’s body was heavy and hot over him, like a blanket with a furnace built in. Rick felt safe under that weight. Nothing could reach him so long as Daryl covered him, held him close, and kissed him with that intoxicating, fast-paced _urgency_ —oh. Weird. When did that start? But then Daryl sucked Rick’s bottom lip into his mouth, grazed his teeth down it, and the question faded into the fuzz. Kissing Daryl was good, and his body flush against Rick’s only added another layer of pleasure that Rick craved more of. He wanted more of Daryl against him—harder, heavier, _all_ of it—so, in search of that contact, Rick arched upward, lifting his back off the bed, tightened his fingers in Daryl’s shirt to pull him closer, and pushed his mouth against Daryl’s as firm as he could. All of it came in one fluid motion, a roll of his hips, a curl of his spine, and an urgent kiss that could never be close enough. The movement held a message for Daryl—honestly, it was a blatant plea. _Give me more._

Rick must have roused something in Daryl, because he pressed down harder, held Rick tighter, kissed him sloppier, parted his lips, and….moaned. Jesus christ, Daryl _moaned._ Caught between huffing breaths, that rumbling escaped into the otherwise soundless dark, raw, sensual, and to Rick’s utter surprise, it set fire to him. His need for comfort turned into a need for more. All at once, he envisioned sweating skin, thrusting bodies, and noises like _that_ falling out of Daryl in a steady stream. The feeling it stirred to life in his pants caught him off guard. He gasped, “ _Oh_ ,” and Daryl’s tongue slipped past Rick’s parted lips. 

After all these years, it had never occurred to Rick to want Daryl in this way. They were brothers, and when Rick told Daryl that, he felt like he was bestowing Daryl with a well-deserved honor. The only other person who held such a title in Rick’s life was Shane, and they’d grown up together, were partners on the force, and Daryl reached that status, _surpassed_ it, in just a few short years _._ That was no small feat. Besides “son”, “brother” was the highest position a man could hold in Rick’s life—or so he thought. But how Daryl kissed him, like nothing else in this world mattered, it seemed like he was determined to earn a promotion. What was there beyond brother?

Daryl kisses had turned into something else. He kissed him in an entirely different sort of way, a way that made Rick’s gut flip onto its head. If before they were toeing the line between friendship and “something more”, then this new, desperate tangle of tongues threw them clear over the boundary line. Rick’s brain didn’t know how to take it, but the rest of him was certainly on board. So Rick lay still and gave himself over. He kept himself soft and inviting, his fingers curled gently around the back of Daryl’s neck, playing with the hair covering it. He permitted Daryl to explore inside his mouth, and met every spit-slick slide of Daryl’s tongue with his own. He let himself be kissed, and he kissed back. He didn’t know what to think, or what on earth he should say when their kiss finally tapered out, but he knew how to follow Daryl’s lead, and that’s what he focused on. Lips, tongue, spit. I love you, I love you, I love you.  

One night, back at the prison, about three weeks after Merle died, once everyone had fallen asleep, Daryl showed up in the doorway to Rick’s cell wearing his night clothes and holding his pillow loose, by the corner. He rapped his knuckles on the doorway to rouse Rick from his light sleep. 

Rick rubbed his eyes and squinted into the darkness. “Daryl?” he whispered, “Is that you?”

“Can I come ’n?” he asked. 

Rick nodded and hurried out of bed to Daryl, who shuffled into his cell with tense shoulders and stiff limbs. Rick stooped to catch his eyes, but Daryl kept his on the floor. 

“What’s wrong?” Rick asked. 

Rick stomach churned with the many terrible possibilities that swarmed like yellow jackets. It had been a while since Daryl came to him about Merle. Rick thought he was getting better. It seemed like he was. He hadn’t been so angry all the time, didn’t slam or stomp around the prison like before. He stopped going out hunting so often and for so long. And at dinner the other day, he _laughed_ at something Rick said, and that was something rare _before_ Merle dying, and after, Rick never thought he’d get to see it again with the sad state Daryl had devolved into. He’d been doing so good! Rick had tried to get him back down to earth, like Daryl had done for him after Lori, but if Daryl was here, it could only mean that he—

“’M fine,” Daryl said. He shuffled his socked feet over toward Rick, and on instinct (they’d done it this way many times before), Rick wrapped his arms around Daryl and guided him to rest in the crook of his neck while they stood in the middle of his cell. Daryl sighed softly, and dropped his pillow onto the floor so he could clutch at the back of Rick’s sleep shirt. His warm breath ghosted over Rick’s skin and make the hairs raise. Rick pulled him tighter. It had been nearly a week since they’d done this, and it surprised Rick that he missed it. He took great pride in being the one Daryl came to in times of distress. It was a privilege to be his best friend’s confidant and comfort. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked again. Daryl wouldn’t be here if he was fine. He was independent—it was hard enough to ask for help when he needed it, never mind if he didn’t.

“Nothin’,” Daryl said.

Rick put his hands on Daryl’s shoulders and pulled him back. Daryl dropped his gaze the floor and swayed on his feet. He leaned forward and crashed into Rick’s chest. 

“Rick,” he said. It sounded strained. Rick pulled him back and looked at him. He grabbed Daryl’s head by the chin and gave him a once over. Then he pulled Daryl’s mouth open and leaned in. Daryl’s sucked in a hard breath. Rick waited for the out breath, and when it came, he smelled it. Whiskey.

“Have you been drinking?” Rick asked. Daryl sighed, nodded, and fell into Rick. He balled his fists into the fabric on the sides of Rick’s shirt so he couldn’t pull him back up. 

“Why, Daryl? It’s late.” 

Daryl rolled his head on Rick’s shoulder. “Courage,” he said against his neck. Rick’s spine tingled.

“What do you need courage for?”

“You.”

Rick swallowed, then chuckled lowly. “You don’t need courage for me. You don’t need to be drinkin’, either. Come on, let’s get you in bed, alright?” He patted Daryl’s back and unhooked his fingers from his shirt. He guided Daryl toward the door, but Daryl scooped up his pillow and headed the other direction. He collapsed on Rick’s bed, face-first, with a thump. Rick stood there, struck dumb. Was he meant to go sleep in Daryl’s bed, then? He couldn’t imagine Daryl would appreciate Rick in his private space. He didn’t allow anybody in there. Rick supposed he could sleep in an empty cell, but he’d need to find bedsheets. Or, there was always the blanket nest up in the guard tower, but that thing belonged to Glenn and Maggie, and the idea of touching it grossed him out.

Daryl peeked up at Rick with one eye. “Whatcha doing?” he said into the pillow. It came out muffled. He rolled his head to free his mouth from the barrier. “Get over ‘ere,” he said. 

Rick’s skin heated up all over, but on his face most of all. “I don’t know if there’s enough room for the both of us,” he said.

Daryl twisted around and looked at the bed, as if considering it for the first time. When he realized how much space he took up, he wiggled over up against the wall, moved pillows around, got settled onto his side, and once everything was situated, he said, “There. Now c’mere.”

Sharing a bed with Daryl—that would be different. They’d never done that before. But before Merle died, they hadn’t ever hugged, but now they often did, and it was nice. Rick looked at Daryl, laid across his bed, his back pressed to the prison wall, eyes fluttering, fighting sleep. It’d been a while since Rick had someone’s body laying next to him. This looked nice, too. Rick crossed the room and climbed in. 

It was a tight fit, the two of them. They lay there, face to face, and even though Rick tried to leave plenty of space between their bodies, their knees touched when bent, and the smallest shift would cause skin to brush. Rick was uncomfortable. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He felt too big, in the way, and Daryl’s warm breath kept tickling his face and chest. Daryl was just as tense. He wasn’t breathing right. It was too shallow and not nearly often enough. Rick had the feeling he only sucked in air when he couldn’t go without any longer without. It made Rick overly conscious of his own breathing, and then he wasn’t breathing right either, and his heart started to pound like a bass drum in his chest.

Then, all at once, Daryl pressed himself into Rick. He wiggled forward and buried his face on Rick’s shoulder, put an arm over his middle, and slotted his leg in between Rick’s. It jacked Rick’s heart up to double time. He tensed for a long moment, but once he reasoned that _it was the same as a hug, just laying down,_ Rick relaxed. And it was actually better all tangled up than stressing over casual contact. So he pulled Daryl in tight, and he ran his fingers through his hair. It was nice.

“What’s wrong?” he asked after a few minutes, in a sleep-heavy voice. 

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong,” Daryl said, “Just need ya.” And he pulled Rick in closer and held him hard. Like Rick was the only thing keeping him from floating away.

Morning came, and Rick woke up in an empty bed. The next time the two of them met eyes, Daryl turned heel and ran. The time after that, he blushed and started up a conversation with Hershel before Rick could say anything to him. That evening, at dinner, Daryl mumbled an apology to Rick and blamed the whiskey. After that, they didn’t talk about it anymore and Daryl never came looking to sleep in Rick’s bed again. 

At the time, Rick didn’t realize what that night meant. He didn’t understand what Daryl needed, what he was trying to tell him, but now—now, he could _feel_ Daryl’s need in every frantic kiss. 

How could he have been so dumb? What he and Daryl had, it _was_ romance, from the very start. Maybe it didn’t have that loud audaciousness love normally did. It didn’t present itself as bouquets of flowers, or mushy sentiments, or public declarations promising eternal devotion, but only because it didn’t need to. A different flavor of love developed between the two of them. They gave each other secrets and promises. They exchanged meaningful glances, and somehow, they always communicated what was necessary. Their actions proved their devotion constantly. Never did Rick catch his eyes with Daryl’s and doubt his loyalty. Never did Daryl look back at him with anything less that trust. How did Rick not see it until now?

Rick pulled away from Daryl’s kiss and gasped. His head spun. The sky was lightening up, enough that Rick could make out some of Daryl’s features—the shape of his head, the angle of his nose, those gorgeous, puffy, shining lips, and they looked that way because of _him_ , because they… Rick’s heart leapt in his chest at the thought. He smoothed his palms down the sides of Daryl’s scruffy cheeks and cupped them over his jaw. Daryl looked down at him, and though the darkness shadowed his eyes, Rick could make out the wrinkle of his brow. He pecked Daryl on the lips to ease the worry. Daryl’s brow softened a little, and he leaned his forehead against Rick’s.

“I didn’t realize,” said Rick.

Daryl stayed quiet for a moment. When he spoke, it was like he didn’t want to. “Realize what?” he asked.

Rick tightened his grip on Daryl’s neck. “ _Us_ ,” he whispered fiercely. 

Daryl’s tongue flicked over his well-loved lips. “Whattabout us?”

Rick chuckled. This man was humble to a fault. It was so like him to stray toward cautious skepticism. How long would Rick have to kiss Daryl before he let himself believe this was more than a fluke, or a one-off? He was _in_ this. Now he had to prove it. 

“We’re in love,” Rick said. 

Daryl swallowed. He let out a shaky breath, and asked, “We are?” It was an honest question. 

“Yeah,” Rick breathed. “We are. You’ve known it, too.”

Daryl huffed out a laugh. It floated with wonder, sank with disbelief. He said, “I didn’t know nothin’ ‘bout _we_ …just…me.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve gotten here a whole lot sooner.” Rick kissed him again, to give him an example of how good “here” was. Daryl turned hot under Rick’s fingertips.

“I thought…” Daryl said. He huffed through his nose. His irritation bristled against Rick and shifted the mood between them. “Hell, Rick, how the fuck was I supposed to know? You never gave me any reason to think that—that we could—”

He sighed sharply and rolled off Rick, onto his back. They lay side by side on the mattress, two sets of eyes focused on the barely visible ceiling. Daryl said, “You didn’t seem in’erested in me. It was always some’ne else. Lori. Jessie.” He cleared his throat. “Michonne.”

Her name knocked the wind right out of Rick. Fuck, what was he going to do about _Michonne_? This would break her heart, and he wasn’t the only one who lost Carl. She had mourning to do, too. This was cruel, it was—it was _wrong_ —how could he possibly—?

He looked over at Daryl on the bed next to him. He was met with his profile: Daryl pointedly did not look at Rick, he kept his eyes trained on the ceiling above him. Rick saw why. The first golden yellow glow of morning had shone through the window. It illuminated Daryl’s face, and Rick saw the redness that stretched from his forehead, down his cheeks and neck, and disappeared into his collar. He saw the deep furrowed brow and downturned mouth. He saw how Daryl’s bottom lip trembled because of how tight he held his jaw. The emotion was barely contained, and Rick realized how much Daryl needed him. And that was just it: perhaps Michonne needed Rick, but not as much as Daryl did. Perhaps Rick needed Michonne—but he needed Daryl more. 

Rick knew that Michonne couldn’t sew him up. Not after Carl. He couldn’t sew her up either. They weren’t what each other needed. It would be hard, leaving her, and now of all times, but he had to. How could he stay when he knew he couldn’t give her the things he ought to?

“I’m gonna have to talk to her,” he said. 

Daryl sat straight up. “To Michonne?!” he said, so loud it made Rick jump. 

“ _Shhh_!” He scrambled to sit up and yanked Daryl by the shoulder until he turned to face him head on. They sat criss cross in front of each other on the bed, and Rick leaned in even more so that their conversation could be as quiet as possible. 

“Yeah,” Rick said, “I’m gonna talk to Michonne.”

“What the fuck for? She don’t need to know about this shit,” Daryl shout-whispered. He did a fast back and forth motion between their over-kissed mouths. “Look man, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what the fuck I was thinkin’. I shouldn’t have done it. You were a mess, not thinkin’ straight, and I should’ve stopped it ‘fore it started. I’ll own up. But I’d ‘ _preciate_ if we can keep a lock on this, ’cause I rather not get my goddamn head _katana’d clean off_!”

“I’ve gotta tell her something.”

“ _Why_? We don’t gotta say nothin’!” Daryl hissed.

“I can’t leave her without giving any sort of reason!”

Daryl’s jaw dropped. He blinked at Rick, with a mix of terror and confusion on his face. “You’re not leaving Michonne! You’re fuckin’ crazy man!” Daryl sprung up off the bed and started pacing. He chewed vigorously at his nail and kept his eyes on the floor. He muttered, “You’re not thinkin’ straight. You don’t know what you’re sayin’,” but it sounded like he was talking to himself more than Rick. 

Rick let him pace for a while to release some nervous energy. After a few minutes, once Daryl slowed down and turned back to Rick, licking the blood from his thumbnail he’d bit too low, Rick grabbed him by the belt-loop and pulled him back onto the bed. Daryl fell forward, and then he was balanced over the top of Rick, same as before, but hovering, like he was ready to split at any moment. It wasn’t right, them like this, so Rick put his hands on the small of Daryl’s back and pulled him down until they were pressed against one another. Daryl dropped from his hands onto his elbows and they were nose to nose. Daryl’s eyes stayed wide while Rick’s fell closed. A few seconds passed, and when Rick peeked through one eye at Daryl, he found that he shut his eyes, too. But his lids quivered like it took a lot of work to keep them that way. 

“I want _you_ , Daryl. It wouldn’t be fair to _any_ of us if I stay with Michonne. So, I’m gonna talk to her.”

“But you love her,” Daryl said. 

“Of course I do. I loved her before she and I were together, and I’ll love her after. She’s family. I don’t love her like I love you, though. So, we gotta sort this out. Let me talk to her.”

“She’ll kill me.”

“She won’t. You’re family, too. She might be hurt, but she’ll come around. She’ll forgive us.”

Rick tangled his fingers in Daryl’s hair and gently guided him back so he could see his face. Daryl opened his eyes and looked at him. His tension seemed to have eased, if only slightly. 

Daryl said, “I didn’t think this would ever happen,” and there was so much hope in his voice, Rick insides turned to liquid, and he _smiled_ , a real, ear-to-ear, bright-as-the-sun, pre-apocalypse smile, and it flooded Rick with relief to know he still had it in him. It was a gift, bestowed upon him by Daryl.

Rick wanted to give himself over to Daryl: all of him, _everything_. He ached to see the happiness he could draw out of him. He wanted every part of Daryl, too. The secrets, the vulnerabilities, the fears and hopes and worries. The stuff that nobody else got to see.

But for now, he’d settle for one last kiss until he was able to sort things out. Rick pulled Daryl in and kissed him like they did in the Hollywood movies: slotted mouths, tender tongues, his hands on Daryl’s face, Daryl’s hands on his chest. Daryl dragged his hands down Rick’s body, moved his hips against him like he couldn’t help it, and Rick moved his own hips in time with Daryl’s, like he couldn’t either. They made soft sounds in their throats, sighs, whines, moans, and they kissed until Daryl finally pulled away with a regretful puff.

Rick’s mouth must have made a compelling argument, because the worry had drained from Daryl’s face, and his breathing turned deep and slow. Rick understood. He felt the same. Daryl mouth did a pretty bang up job of validating Rick’s decision.

“Okay,” Daryl said.

“Okay,” Rick replied. 

So, there it was. Rick would talk to Michonne.

 

It took three and a half days for Rick to find an opportunity. There was still a war to fight, and it kept everyone busy. He and Michonne didn’t see much of each other during those days. Rick had the feeling she was avoiding him. She spent a lot of her free time with Judy, and Rick spent his with Daryl, though they did their best to keep the recent developments between them on the down low. When Rick finally decided the time was right, he caught Michonne and told her he needed to speak with her in private. She sighed, like just the idea exhausted her, but she agreed and followed him.

Rick lead the way out to the edge of the Hilltop at a brisk pace. Michonne drug her feet behind him. Once they were far enough out to not be overheard, he turned his head over his shoulder and told her. “Daryl and I are in love,” he said.

She laughed. Rick saw the white of her teeth in his periphery, and it made his stomach lurch. “Sorry, _what_?” Michonne asked. Her pace picked up a bit.

Rick glared at the dirt beneath his booted stride. He didn’t like her laughing at something so serious, but at the same time, he understood why she would. If a week ago, he heard what he just said, that he and Daryl were in love, he probably would have laughed too. 

They reached the wall, and Rick turned around to face her, hands on his hips, head tilted in that way he did whenever he was working up to say something important. Michonne noticed it as she came to a stop in front of him, and the smile fell from her face. God, this was harder than he thought it’d be. Making his mouth move and his voice work took far more effort than it ought to. Rick swallowed thickly and looked to the side, past her furrowed brow and thinned lips, to the bustling people in the distance. He saw Daryl amongst the crowds, holding little Judy in his arms and weaving through the hubbub. It didn’t look like he was going anywhere in particular, just walking in circles. Daryl looked everywhere but over to the perimeter where Rick and Michonne stood. Rick could tell that he was watching them from the corner of his eye.

“Daryl and I are in love,” he said.

“ _In_ love?” she asked, like the combination of the two words confused her. Like she’d be able to wrap her head around, “Daryl and I love each other,” but, “Daryl and I are _in_ love,” threw her for a loop. 

Rick nodded. “ _In_ love,” he said.

She was silent, motionless, and when a few moments passed without a word from her, Rick braved a glance at her face. It wasn’t angry, or sad, the way he had expected. Her eyebrows were raised, her eyelids hung low, her mouth closed, and her jaw slack.

Rick cleared his throat, jerked his head to the side, and pressed on. “I don’t know exactly when it started,” he said, “A long time ago. Maybe when he and I first met. But I…I didn’t realize ’til recent. Not ’til…’til Carl.”

Michonne still didn’t say anything, so Rick tumbled into the full story. He sounded like a madman, talking about being made of ash, and “most important people”, and getting sewn up. He didn’t know how much of it she understood, because her expression didn’t change the whole time he talked. 

Rick told her how he felt after burying Carl. He explained how Daryl came to his room that night, and what transpired between them, blushing and stammering through the more intimate details. He assured her nothing happened since then, but admitted that night changed him. It made him realize things he couldn’t ignore. 

He concluded his story, sweating hot, and sick to his stomach from guilt. He said, “I need him, Michonne. I want to be with him. He’s…”

“He’s your most important person,” she said.

The tension fell from his body. Michonne had heard him. She understood. “Yeah,” he said. 

“And he’s gonna sew you up?”

Rick nodded vigorously, eyes on the dirt. Then Michonne breathed out, soft through her nose. 

“Alright,” she said.

Rick’s eyes flew up to meet her gaze. Alright? That’s it? He shifted on his feet and flexed his fingers where they sat on his hips. He thought hard, but couldn’t come up with anything to say to something as simple as, “Alright.”

Michonne chuckled at him and shook her head. “Don’t get me wrong, Rick. I love you. I love being with you. You, Carl, Judy, you guys are everything to me.” She smiled warmly but quickly looked away. She talked at the wall, instead of at him. She said, “But I’m not sure I can put you back together. These last few days, I’ve been thinking on it constantly. ‘How do I keep him going? How do I help him live with…with this?’ and I don’t know that I can. There isn’t enough of me left. But you say that Daryl can sew you up. I believe you.”

“He can. He already is,” said Rick. 

Michonne nodded. Their eyes met. She said, “I’m glad you found what you need. And now, I can focus on finding what I need.”

They walked back together. Once they were close enough, Rick caught Daryl’s eyes and nodded once to let him know they made it through the conversation. Daryl had worried eyes and a small frown, but he nodded back. Then, his eyes darted toward Michonne and the color drained from his face. She was headed straight toward him. Rick heart jumped dangerously and he picked up speed so that he strode toward Daryl right alongside her. He checked to see if Michonne had her katana on her. She didn’t. At least worst-case-scenario wouldn’t end with Daryl’s head rolling through the dirt. 

The closer she got, the more Daryl pulled in on himself—tight shoulders, ducked head, Judy held tight against him like a shield. His eyes begged Michonne to understand that he was sorry, he didn’t mean to, _I never meant to hurt you,_ he said with that look. She stopped in front of him, and Rick stopped a few steps away, his eyes jumping back and forth between them.

Michonne smiled wide. She held out her arms and motioned for Judy. 

“He’s your problem now, but I still get parental rights,” she said.

It drew an unexpected, huffed laugh out of Daryl. He passed Judy over. Michonne grinned wide at her and hugged her tight. “Come on, honey. Let’s go do something fun. Coloring?” Judith gasped and nodded happily. Michonne laughed and kissed her forehead. 

She turned back to Daryl. “Take care of him, okay? He needs you.”

Rick’s face heated, but he smiled when Daryl’s eyes fell on him. Daryl looked at him while he answered Michonne. “I got this,” he said, with the kind of conviction that left no room for doubt. Michonne patted Daryl’s shoulder and carried Judy off toward the house. Then, it was just Rick and Daryl standing there in the populated yard. 

“That it, then?” Daryl asked. 

Rick nodded. He walked cautiously over to Daryl. He left an appropriate amount of distance between them—the kind that communicated “brothers” not “lovers” to onlookers. He glanced around. Nobody was paying them any attention, but still, it felt strange to have this conversation out in the open, in the light of day. 

“I told her everything. She’s not mad. Seemed kind of…relieved, actually.” Rick laughed. Daryl huffed through his nose and smiled. “What now?” Rick asked. 

“Now we win this fuckin’ war.”

Rick licked his lips and looked at Daryl’s. “And us?” he asked.

“Once we’re on the other side of this,” Daryl said. Rick tore his eyes away, looked up at that bright sky, and nodded. 

It was better that way. It gave them a reason to keep going. Plus, it was a promise to make it out alive. They had to. There were things left unfinished. Every time Rick saw Daryl across a room, or over a battlefield, it reminded him what it was all for, and he found it inside himself to fight a little harder.

 

Four nights after the war ended, once the dust settled and life picked up as normal, Rick asked Daryl to go with him back to Alexandria to assess the potential for rebuilding, and to visit Carl. The second time Rick stood in front of Carl’s grave ended up the same as the first. He stared at that dirt mound, blank-faced, and felt himself shrivel into ashes inside labored lungs. He thought he’d been making progress in his grief. He thought he’d been recovering from Carl’s death, but he’d been wrong. There _was_ no healing from a wound like this. You can’t fix something blown to bits. You can’t come back to life when you’re bit, shot, dead on the steps, buried in the ground, gone away. You just can’t.

Then Daryl wove his fingers into Rick’s and those feelings drifted away like distant memories. Rick cried. Daryl held him. Together, they told Carl everything he’d missed. They recounted every detail of the war, listed the people who died, and apologized for them. They tried to prevent as much death as possible, for Carl, but they weren’t able to save everyone. Daryl told him some things he wish he would’ve said while he was alive. Rick did, too. Together, they told Carl they were in love. That part was hard, and it made Rick sick with guilt, because he couldn’t help but think Carl’d be disappointed he left Michonne. But Carl was the most compassionate man he knew, and if anyone could understand, his son could.

That night, Rick and Daryl stayed in Alexandria. Some buildings were intact, so they found one to lay up in for the night. Rick stood in the living room and looked out the window at the destruction. Daryl came up beside him and bumped him with his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said. Simple. Straightforward.

Rick smiled. “Hey,” he replied. 

They stood in front of the window and looked at the dead grass and destroyed buildings. The fires had long cooled, and it felt like there was years of distance between them and the night when Alexandria, and Carl, fell. 

“You did good, you know,” Daryl said, “You done him proud.”

“You think?”

Daryl nodded. “And it’s over. You can hang up the gun, now. If you want. You can be farmer Rick again.” Rick snorted and glanced over to find Daryl smirking playfully.

“You like farmer Rick?”

“Ain’t nothin’ better. You look damn good tendin’ crops, I’ll tell ya. All dirty and sweaty in a loose ass pair of overalls? And good lord, those _gard’ner gloves_?” He whistled. Rick rolled his eyes hard and smacked him on the shoulder. Daryl laughed. He turned toward Rick, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him over so they were face to face. Rick felt himself matching Daryl’s smile.

Daryl said, “You know, I say it sarcastic, but only ‘cause I’m dead serious. It’s a wonder I didn’t keel over back at the prison with how bad I wanted ya.”

Rick’s mouth turned dry and his heart hammered in his ears. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Daryl. He leaned in close, until their mouths nearly touched, and he said, “I’ve been wantin’ ya for a real long time. Almost as long as I’ve known ya.” Rick felt the graze of Daryl’s dry lips over his own, and it made his body burn all over. His heart sped up, along with his breathing, and his head dizzied from desire.

“Take me,” Rick said, “I’m yours.”

“You’re my _everything_ ,” Daryl said.

“And you’re mine.”

Then Daryl pushed their lips together, and though they kissed each other a hundred times before, that kiss might as well have been the very first, because nothing, _nothing_ Rick experienced could compare to the way Daryl’s lips felt on his that night in wasteland Alexandria. It sewed him up. Rick would make it out of this. They all would. They’d make Carl’s dreams real. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic based on the feelings I expressed in [this](https://sheriffsrevolver.tumblr.com/post/171311553205/what-needs-to-happen-for-the-walking-dead-carls) post on my tumblr. If you wanna hear me bitch/gush about this show, follow me! Come for the Rickyl, stay for the thirst tags. 
> 
> Leave me a comment peeps. A ton of love went into this fic, so I'm excited to hear what you guys think!


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